


In the Alleyway

by foryouandbits



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 08:49:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6899242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foryouandbits/pseuds/foryouandbits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock attends a concert for a case, dressed very unlike himself. John loves it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Alleyway

_Need you. Come immediately. – SH_

John is just about in bed when he gets the text. His teeth are clean, his trousers are off, he’s turning down the duvet to climb between the sheets, and then his mobile buzzes. Without even looking he knows it’s Sherlock. Sherlock hasn’t been home all day.

John stares at his sheets. It was a long, arduous shift at work and three hours into it he began to understand why Sherlock used to shoot the wall and scream about being bored. All John wants to do is sleep, but he picks up his phone and reads the text. It’s less than thirty seconds before he’s out the door and down the stairs.

_Where are you?_

Sherlock replies within seconds with an address. John finds a cab outside and sits on the edge of the seat, mobile in hand, ready to jump out and help. His heart is racing the entire twenty minute drive there. The cab pulls in front of a concert venue – a small one, but people are trickling in. After John pays and exits the cab, he can hear the steady beat from inside. He purchases a ticket at the front window and enters behind a young couple who give him a second look before they hold the door open for him, which causes John to flatten his grey hair.

There are about a hundred people packed on the floor. The band is on stage playing some kind of alternative rock but the drumbeat is good, actually surprisingly catchy. Most of the crowd is swaying back and forth to the beat. John taps his thumbs on his jeans as he surveys the room for Sherlock, but despite there being only a hundred people, Sherlock is nowhere to be found. John’s eyes continue to scan the crowd, a good mix of men and women, almost all in their early twenties, and he follows the edge of the audience toward the left, looking for the sweeping black coat.

Then John spots him on the other side of the audience, in the third row, standing two feet away from the person in front of him, but lodged between a man and a woman. It’s no wonder John couldn’t find him – he’s not wearing his coat. He’s not even wearing a suit. He’s wearing jeans (since when does Sherlock own jeans?) and a dark flannel shirt over a white undershirt. The flannel is the right size for once, not stretched tightly across his chest, and is untucked from his jeans. His hair is tousled on his head, less controlled than normal, but apart from the wardrobe and hair, there’s something altogether different about him. He seems more relaxed here than John has ever seen him, his shoulders slightly rounded, his hands clasped together at his waist, his head bobbing and his hips swaying along with the beat. He stares up at the band, his eyes enraptured, the muscles in his face flexing as his jaw moves – he’s chewing gum. Sherlock Holmes is chewing gum.

It’s the sexiest thing John Watson has ever seen.

John continues to stare, as captivated by Sherlock as Sherlock is by the band, until Sherlock slowly blinks and turns his gaze toward John. How long had he known John was there? A smile crosses Sherlock’s lips, not the fake smiles he gives to his clients when trying to weasel something out of them, not even the half-smile he sometimes throws John when John is being clever (rare, but not unheard of). This is a natural, eye-twinkling sort of smile. Sherlock beckons John over with a nod.

John crosses through the crowd to Sherlock’s side. Just as John arrives the song ends and the audience claps and cheers. Sherlock cups his hands around his mouth and lets out a “Woo!” that John was unsure Sherlock’s lips could ever create. He then turns to John.

“Hey,” he says.

John’s eyebrows furrow.

“Hi,” replies John. “What did you need so urgently?”

“I need you to watch these guys,” said Sherlock, gesturing toward the band on stage. “Especially the drummer. Did you hear him on that last song? Brilliant.”

John looks at the stage and then back at Sherlock – or, at least, he thinks he’s looking at Sherlock. It’s Sherlock’s face all right, and Sherlock’s voice, but the rest of it just seems off.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, John, everything’s great.”

The next song begins and Sherlock returns his attention to the band. John watches him; he can’t help it. Sherlock’s the most relaxed John has seen him in the entirety of their acquaintance. His jeans hug him in the right places, his flannel fits just right, and his neck is bare, showing off the long expanse leading up to a chiseled jawline, freshly shaven, and his long sideburns normally hidden by his hair. His hair is tucked behind his ear, curling under just a bit. John watches as Sherlock continues to chew his gum, his lips pursing and unpursing as his teeth open and shut, the muscles under his majestic cheekbones bouncing as they flex and unflex. Sherlock beings to sway again in time with the music, blinking slowly, his attention mostly diverted until he looks back at John again.

“The band, John,” he says, pointing again. John clears his throat and looks at the band on stage, but his eyes continue to drift back to Sherlock at his side, and John has to shift his weight in order to avoid the tightness forming in his trousers. Sherlock bumps into him while he sways, their arms touching and not touching and touching again, just for a moment, and each brush of fabric causes John’s skin to tingle. It’s fairly warm so John didn’t bother with a jacket when he left the flat, so every sway, every beat, causes flannel to touch skin, and John has to take a step away before he explodes in his pants in this crowd in this concert venue in front of all of these people.

The song ends and Sherlock “Woo!”s again, and as he does the lead singer of the band throws his guitar pick at someone in the crowd and says goodnight. A few people begin to leave but most of them shift toward the merch table in a line, clearly aware that the band is going to come out and sign autographs in a few minutes. They’re all leaving the stage, though, and heading out of sight. Sherlock’s eyes never leave them, not until they’re completely gone.

“All right, come on,” he says, tugging at John’s elbow. John follows Sherlock to a side door where a security guard stands to prevent them from entering without authorization. Sherlock apparently has authorization because the guard moves aside without a word. They enter a hallway leading toward the stage. The band stands just offstage, wiping away sweat with towels and putting guitars into cases. One of them spots Sherlock and John approaching.

“Hey guys, give us a minute. We’ll be out there to sign autographs once we get settled.”

“We’re not here for an autograph,” says Sherlock, and the ease leaves his body as if he stood underneath a showerhead and washed it away. His shoulders pop back into position and he stands like the Sherlock John knows, ramrod straight with the tensile strength of a drawn bow. “We’re here in regards to a missing Les Paul, custom made, very expensive. None of you happen to have seen it, have you?”

“Fuck!” shouts the lead singer, but there’s nowhere to go in the tiny hall except toward the stage. That’s where he goes, and Sherlock’s hot in his tail, and John’s hot on Sherlock’s – he doesn’t get very far. Sherlock tackles him into the drumkit, causing the drummer to shout at them. Sherlock produces a pair of handcuffs and secures the lead singer to one of the larger amplifiers on stage. Sherlock stands, brushes off his clothes, and turns to the drummer, who is staring at his broken kit.

“Apologies,” says Sherlock. “I’ll see that they’re replaced – you are incredibly talented. Too talented for the rest of them.”

“Hey!” shouts the bassist and second guitarist.

Sherlock jumps off the stage and begins to text Lestrade – John follows him out the door and onto the street. Most of the fans who were lingering around for an autograph are leaving, disappointed, and they flock toward the main road for cabs. Sherlock turns the other direction, away from them, and then stops in an alley, still texting.

“Sherlock,” says John as they stand in the alleyway, “why did you text me? You didn’t even need me. You had it figured out.”

“There was a high probability of a foot chase and I wasn’t certain until we confronted the band that only the lead guitarist was involved in the theft. If they’d split up I would have needed you to assist in their apprehension.”

“What’s with the get-up then?”

Sherlock raises his eyes from his phone.

“What do you mean?”

John gestures toward Sherlock’s outfit. Sherlock looks down at himself.

“It was a concert. I couldn’t wear a suit to a rock concert.”

“I didn’t even know you owned clothes like these.”

Sherlock returns to his phone and doesn’t answer, but also doesn’t move. John leans up against a brick wall and waits; sirens draw closer and a car passes by the alley with its lights on, signaling the arrival of Lestrade’s team to arrest the Les Paul thief. Sherlock has been texting for several minutes.

“Who are you texting? Lestrade is here.” Sherlock looks up and John’s breath hitches in his throat; the blue light of the patrol cars down the street are flashing into the alley, illuminating Sherlock’s eyes. The effect is so unexpected that John wants to look away, knows that he should look away, but can’t. He’s staring directly into Sherlock’s blue eyes and Sherlock allows his posture to dip forward, allows himself to loosen as he did when John first saw him.

“Why is this so surprising to you?” Sherlock asks, his voice lower than usual. John stiffens against the brick wall. “I prefer to wear suits, but my wardrobe is not limited to them.” Sherlock takes a step closer and John has to raise his gaze to keep in contact with Sherlock. “Your eyes are dilated.”

“It’s dark in this alley.”

“There’s a streetlight right next to us.”

“Still dark.”

“Your breathing is erratic.” John swallows and tries to think of an excuse for that, but now that Sherlock has mentioned it, all John can focus on – besides the blue eyes in front of him – is the rhythm of his breathing. “They’re just clothes, John.”

“It’s not just the clothes,” John says in a hope to defend himself, but after the words leave his mouth Sherlock raises an eyebrow and John realizes he’s dug himself a deeper hole. “Your posture is different. Your face. You’re chewing gum, Sherlock.”

Sherlock spits his gum out onto the pavement before he reconnects his gaze to John’s.

“I’ve seen you play a part for a case before, but never quite like this.”

“Do you like it?” Sherlock asks.

John can only nod. Sherlock continues forward, cautiously, as if he still needs additional confirmation to justify crowding John in a somewhat dark alleyway. John is still partly focused on breathing; he takes in one deep breath to try to restart his rhythm, but Sherlock is so close that John can smell him, and he even _smells_ different.

“Are you wearing cologne?” John asks.

“Yes,” replied Sherlock, and he tips his head to the side to reveal the length of his neck. “Here.” He trails a finger down his well-developed sternocleidomastoid muscle. John’s eyes follow along the length of Sherlock’s neck, flickering between the pale skin there and the long, thin finger that’s redirecting John’s attention. John wets his lips and Sherlock notices, because Sherlock notices everything, and John has to look back up at Sherlock’s face to prevent himself from leaning in and pressing his lips against the long stretch of skin.

“Sherlock,” says John, quietly, pleading with him. He’s trapped up against the wall, Sherlock’s feet planted on either side of one of John’s legs, one hand against the brick, the other still touching his neck. “Sherlock…we’re in public.”

“Not really,” replies Sherlock with a glance toward the street. “Everyone’s gone the other way. Tell me that doesn’t boil your blood a bit, though, that we’re only somewhat alone.” John’s blood is boiling, it has been boiling since he entered the venue.

“Sherlock if you don’t kiss me right this second –“

Sherlock does, all pretense gone. Sherlock’s hand drops from his own neck to place itself on John’s chest, square against his heart, clearly feeling for its beat. They meet in a crash, both of Sherlock’s lips closing around John’s bottom lip, furiously moving against each other. They kiss against the brick wall intensely but not for long, because the seal has been broken, the dam has been burst, and John can’t get enough of Sherlock. John pulls away and kisses Sherlock’s chin, his jawline, his ear, and quickly into his neck. Sherlock moans softly as John messily pecks a line down Sherlock’s muscle, into his shirt, stopping at his collarbone only because Sherlock’s pushed him up against the wall, now attacking him, kissing his forehead, his eyes, his nose, into his neck. Sherlock doesn’t stop there; his lips trail over John’s chest through his shirt until Sherlock can’t bend any further and sinks to his knees, his mouth at the waist of John’s jeans, his eyes staring up into John’s once more.

“Oh, Christ, Sherlock, Lestrade is just down the street,” breathes John in what should be a protest, but the weight of his words does not meet his tone. John’s got both his hands resting on Sherlock’s shoulders, not resisting. Sherlock moves slowly now, giving John time to stop him, as he begins to unbelt John’s jeans. John hits his head against the brick wall and looks up at the night sky. Sherlock still moves slowly, almost hesitating, as he slides down the zipper.

“John?” Sherlock asks. John looks back down again and Sherlock’s cocked an eyebrow.

John glances toward the end of the alleyway and then lets out a deep breath before he rests his head against the wall again, his eyes squeezing shut. “Fuck. Yeah,” he says, “yeah, go ahead.”

It’s not the most enthusiastic consent, but the whimper in John’s voice only increases when Sherlock tugs down John’s jeans and pants, releasing John’s achingly hard cock into the nighttime air. John groans loudly – a little too loudly – when Sherlock wraps his hand around it, and John has to press his hand into his mouth to quiet himself. One firm stroke and John has lost control of his breathing again.

“Fuck, Sherlock, do it already. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this?”

“Hmm,” says Sherlock, teasing John by gently stroking at the head of John’s cock with his nose. “Since you walked in the building?”

“Longer than that,” John says with a half-hearted laugh, unable to fully commit to his disbelief at Sherlock’s first guess.

“Since when, then?” Sherlock asks, planting a kiss to the base of John’s shaft, and John is close to tears with desire. “Since you moved back to 221B?”

“Christ Sherlock, you know it’s been longer than that.”

Sherlock sits back on his heels and completely releases John’s cock from his hand. John looks down; Sherlock’s lost the playful humor in his eyes.

“Since when?”

“Since the start,” replies John. “Since the very start.”

“John,” says Sherlock and John has seen this look before – ages ago, it feels like, when John sat at the kitchen table in 221B in prelude to a wedding that had been a mistake from the beginning, when John told a confused Sherlock that he was John’s best friend.

“You had to have known that, Sherlock,” says John.

“No,” replies Sherlock. “I didn’t.”

“Well now you do. And as much as I would love to relish in the moment, you were about to do something I’ve been thinking about for years.”

The sparkle in Sherlock’s eye returns. He leans forward again, takes John’s cock in his hand again, and very slowly, very purposefully, still locking eyes with John, opens his mouth, reaches out his tongue, and slides it up John’s slit. John, having dropped his hand to discuss important yet non-pertinent matters, groans a loud _fuck_ and then has to clap both his hands over his mouth as it echoes through the alley. The sight is entirely too much, and if John wants this to last to the point of actual suction, he has to look away immediately.

John bites at his lower lip, knowing what was about to happen, and then it does: Sherlock’s tongue slides gently underneath the head of John’s cock and his mouth closes around it, encapsulating John in moist, warm heat. There is no outburst of sound this time, but looking is still not an option, and John instead drops his hands to place them on Sherlock’s head. This is nearly enough to end him there, just the feeling of Sherlock’s curls underneath John’s fingers. He’s felt them before during concussion checks and the repair of cuts and scrapes that inevitably come when living alongside a mad consulting detective, but never like this, never with this intent, never with the full permission to card through them, coil a curl around his fingers, experience how incredibly soft and wild they are. Sherlock seems to enjoy this as well and lets out an appreciative hum, which in turn draws another low _fuck_ from John’s lips.

Sherlock’s head begins to bob and John’s hands gently hold onto him as he moves, holding back the urge to grab those curls and just thrust forward. Sherlock is in control here and John is drifting into bliss. It's only a matter of four strokes before the desire to see begins to overtake him and John looks down. Sherlock looks back up, his pink lips wrapped tightly around John’s cock, his bright blue eyes heavy with desire.

“Holy shit, Sherlock,” he says and he looks up again at the sky, briefly, to compose himself. “Holy shit you are gorgeous. Are you touching yourself? I want to see you touch yourself.” Sherlock shifts, taking hold of John in his left hand instead, and John watches as Sherlock unzips his jeans and snakes a hand inside of them.

John knows this isn’t going to last much longer but he's at the point where he can't stop it. Sherlock looks at him again and John loses it – he’s imagined this so many times over the many years they’ve known each other, lost count of the different variations he’s concocted, where they were and how it started, and now it's happening and his cock is actually in Sherlock’s mouth, and it is actually amazing, better than he’d ever thought – and that's the end of it.

“Fuck, Sherlock, I’m going to come.”

Sherlock doesn’t budge and the knowledge that he’s not budging brings it on more quickly than John anticipated. He grips Sherlock’s hair a little more tightly than anticipated and comes in Sherlock’s mouth and the release is the longest, most intense orgasm John has had in many years. Once the spasms end and John’s heartbeat begins to stabilize, Sherlock pulls off and swallows, but rests his head against John’s hip as he continues to pump himself with his right hand. John wants to help, do something or at least say something, but he’s seeing stars and feels like he could collapse on the ground if Sherlock weren’t partially holding him up. It doesn’t matter; in less than minute Sherlock grunts and comes on the pavement between John’s legs, and John gently caresses his head as they both calm down.

John returns to his senses, specifically his common sense, and looks to the end of the alley again. They’re still alone, thankfully, but now that he’s not focused on Sherlock, he can hear the voices of the officers on the street, sounding only just out of sight. He tucks himself back in his trousers and zips back up. Sherlock does the same before he stands, and it appears Sherlock is just going to walk away, but this moment was years in the making and John just can’t let him scarper as if it were just an encounter in an alleyway after a concert.

“Hey,” said John, grabbing Sherlock by his flannel and pulling him back, “come here.” Sherlock does, he leans in close and allows John to gently kiss him. “I think we need to go home and talk.” Sherlock nods.

“Yes,” he says, “I think we do.”

“I didn’t ask and I need to know now, before we go out there and get distracted and complicate everything. How long has it been for you?”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth turns up in the sort of smile that usually is directed toward John, the one John has always been proud to own.

“Since the start.”

John smiles back, a grin so uncontrollable and so pure that he feels the skin stretch over his teeth. “Yeah? God, we’re idiots.”

“Yes, you are.” Sherlock begins toward the street.

“Shut up or I’ll tell Lestrade you sucked me off in the alley.”

“You were incredibly loud, John. I think everyone knows I sucked you off in the alley.”

“I was not loud!”

Sherlock has to stop and turn back to kiss him once more, but John is so full of smiles he barely puckers his lips in time. Sherlock kisses him and there’s no doubt – this was much better than just staying home and going to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of [this post](http://helloitslbo.tumblr.com/post/144481953540/helloitslbo-cumberbatchlives-benedict) of Ben looking incredibly attractive. I couldn't stop thinking about it, and this was the result.


End file.
